


The Perfect Blend

by LeilaKalomi



Series: The Perfect Blend [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Attempt at Humor, Crowley Has Abandonment Issues (Good Omens), Dysfunctional Family, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gabriel is terrible, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Slow Burn, This isn't quite fluff, but it's not my usual angst either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Aziraphale Fell runs a tea house in Tadfield, where his brother, Gabriel, runs a coffee shop.Everything is lovely until a major coffee chain builds a franchise in Tadfield, and sends in Anthony Crowley to run it. Much to Gabriel's disapproval, Crowley and Aziraphale form a tentative but deep friendship that challenges Aziraphale in new ways. But Crowley is running from some demons of his own.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Perfect Blend [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941463
Comments: 200
Kudos: 236
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Grand Opening

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my very patient beta, EveningStarcatcher.
> 
> Thanks also to nightbloomingcereus and Kittyknowsthings for the idea of a coffee shop/tea house/coffee franchise AU, which came up on the GO Events Server.

“It looks lovely,” Aziraphale said, smiling. Anathema Device (artist name, Aziraphale assumed) beamed at the sculpture of a demon pinning an angel to the ground. It was a bit much, but, ah, well. His book and tea shop, which featured local art on a rotating basis, was the best exhibition spot in town, and he was always willing to give a local artist a spotlight, though if he had a correct read on things, Anathema wouldn’t stay local for long, not with her talent.

“Thank you,” she said. “Although, I’m not sure _lovely_ is exactly what I was going for.”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said. She beamed at him and glanced toward the tea counter where his young employee, Newt, was fiddling with a tea canister.

“Can we get you something?” Aziraphale asked. He noticed the way her eyes lingered on the bags of coffee from Gabriel’s shop that Aziraphale kept on hand. She _was_ an American. But it was well after dark, and when she spoke, she didn’t ask for it after all.

“Maybe a takeaway cup of valerian? It would make for a nice walk home and good sleep.”

“It does make for nice sleep, doesn’t it? Perhaps some chamomile and lavender as well?” He moved behind the counter, edging Newt out of the way. When Anathema nodded, Aziraphale put on the kettle and spooned a little of his original Hypnos blend into an infuser.

He’d had the shop for three years now, almost as long as he’d lived here. It had been something of a dream of his, a place to be surrounded with books and art, cozy with a cup of tea or cocoa. The coffee was Gabriel’s idea, but Aziraphale felt that it was a good one. He sold the odd cup or bag here and there, and it was good not to have to disappoint the inevitable coffee drinkers who turned up. Gabriel roasted it himself, and though Aziraphale had never acquired a taste for coffee, he was sure it must be good if Gabriel was so proud of it.

Gabriel had opened his shop around the same time as Aziraphale did, though, as he often reminded Aziraphale, a few weeks earlier.

As Aziraphale sent Newt home and watched as he ran after Anathema, he wondered when that had happened, when things had gotten so unpleasant between him and Gabriel. He couldn’t place it.

He tidied up the shop, locked the front door, and went upstairs to his flat.

 _Oh,_ Newt had said, the first time he’d realized Aziraphale lived in the flat above the shop. _You don’t live at home? I mean, the Archer family home?_

The Archer family, Gabriel’s father’s family, that was, had a mansion in the hills. Aziraphale had been raised there with him, but it was solidly Gabriel’s home now that their mother had passed away.

 _No, indeed_ , he’d told Newt. He shuddered at the thought. Living with Gabriel. The two of them up there alone together. Honestly. They’d probably kill each other. Or Gabriel would kill him, more likely. Oh, but of course he wouldn’t. Aziraphale was being silly. Gabriel might not get on with him, but surely he’d never take things that far. He’d never actually hurt Aziraphale.

* * *

Aziraphale had been resolutely ignoring the construction project down the way. But there was no ignoring the _Grand Opening_ sign outside of an Hasta La Coffee, the second largest coffee chain in the United Kingdom (after MorningStar Roastery) or their deliberately provocative logo: a fish’s head on a woman’s naked body.

And just there on the corner, not even a block from Gabriel’s shop, Cool Beans. And barely two from his own shop, A.Z. Fell and Co. (Aziraphale was _not impressed_ with cutesy names and recalled briefly suggesting that Gabriel consider a different name for his shop, to no avail.)

Aziraphale stood outside it for a few moments, then turned and strode into Gabriel’s shop instead. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, probably busy working on his campaign for the open Town Council seat, but Aziraphale decided to purchase a coffee. Not because he wanted one, just on principle. He hoped that this new Hasta La Coffee would only drive the local businesses to support each other, and he wanted to get off to a good start.

Unusually for a Wednesday morning in Tadfield, there was a queue. Anathema was at the counter, and behind her, a tall, slender man he didn’t recognize, with bright red hair in a short bun. He wore tight, black trousers and a dark red button down; he seemed to be examining the place, looking around intently as if noting every detail.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said.

The man looked around at him, openly sizing him up. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, even though the sky was overcast, and his sharp face was lined, a little older than Aziraphale had expected, perhaps close to his own age. It was a lovely face, so open and delicate that Aziraphale nearly had to catch his breath with surprise, but the man wore a hard, defensive expression that didn’t suit him at all.

“ _Hi_ ,” he said, as if Aziraphale had said something offensive.

“Is it your first time here?”

The man frowned, nodding. “That obvious?”

“Well, yes. You _are_ looking around as if you’ve never been inside a coffee shop before.”

“Oh, nah.” The man tugged at his shirt, which seemed odd. “Just trying to see what kind of trouble I’m stirring up.”

The man had reached the counter. Anathema caught Aziraphale’s eye and waved as she slipped out the door with her elaborate drink. The man paid and went to the self-serve coffee bar. As Aziraphale ordered a caramel lavender latte (he couldn’t stand the flavor of unadulterated coffee), he heard the man let out a groan and looked around. He was at the door, peering outside in dismay at the heavy rain.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, looking around at him. “Let me…” And he darted into the back of the shop, grabbing the umbrella he knew was there. “There you are. Just bring it back when it stops,” he said.

The man frowned suspiciously as Aziraphale handed him the umbrella. Aziraphale’s eyes fell on something on the man’s shirt and he let himself examine it, figuring he’d already been caught looking.

 _Hasta La Coffee_ , the shirt read, and there was that logo again.

“Thanks,” said the man. Aziraphale nodded and stared openmouthed as the man ducked out under the umbrella and walked down the street toward the new Hasta La Coffee, hips swaying. The gall of him. Not that Aziraphale would have been _rude_ if he’d realized. But still.

Aziraphale sighed and took a seat in the corner. He might as well have his coffee here so it wouldn’t be ruined by the rain. But after a few sips revealed the flavor to be akin to that of oversweetened, burned vegetables, he decided it wasn’t worth the wait and darted out into the downpour, taking his coffee with him only so the barista wouldn’t see him toss it in the trash.


	2. Medusa

Crowley arrived in Tadfield the morning of the opening. He’d worked coffee shops before (though never an Hasta La Coffee) and had taken the job almost on a whim. It wasn’t as if there was anything else in London for him, not now. Hasta was putting him up in a local inn until he could find a place. He arrived at the shop at 5:30 a.m., checked over everything (they’d assured him everything would be ready, but you could never be too sure), and let in the local morning shift hires, two teenagers named Wensleydale and Brian. They lived in Tadfield but had been transferred from the branch a town over, so they didn’t need to be trained.

Even so, he kept his eye on them for the first hour or so. At 7, he decided to go check out the local competition, Cool Beans. Hasta was beating them out with earlier opening hours. That was probably deliberate, he thought.

A woman was there already. A girl, really. American. In the middle of a long order, detailing exactly how much of this syrup, and how much foam, and how much cream versus milk. Crowley sighed and started looking around. It was weirdly hip, with a kind of farm to table vibe that he didn’t love. But it suited Tadfield. A large, handsome man came out of the back, holding a couple of those town council signs Crowley had been seeing everywhere ( _Gabriel Archer for Tadfield Town Council_ ) and ran his eyes over Crowley, letting them narrow. Crowley grinned at him. Must be the owner. The man scoffed before turning around and returning to where he’d come from.

Crowley peered after him in the back. Was that a roaster? They roasted their own beans? _Shit_. The American girl started repeating her order as Crowley craned his neck. Yup, and a grinder too. The bags of beans stacked on the shelves around the shop no longer seemed so pretentious.

“Good morning,” came a posh voice from behind him. He whirled around. Did someone recognize his uniform, even from the back? He hadn’t even known anyone was there. He was going to have to stay more alert on enemy territory.

* * *

The umbrella felt odd in Crowley’s tingling hand. The posh man’s hand had brushed over Crowley’s as he’d handed it to him, and Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about it. The man had given him an umbrella. Had gone out of his way to do it. It just...was weird, right? That must have been why he couldn’t stop thinking about him—about it. The incident.

Crowley tried the coffee and nearly spat it out in the street. It was acrid, foul...it tasted like someone had boiled kale and then mixed the juices with burned cabbage puree. And Crowley _liked_ cabbage and kale _._ If Cool Beans did their own roasting, how in the actual heck was this happening? Someone must not have known what they were doing at all.

He tossed it as soon as he got back inside Hasta and saw Wensleydale and Brian exchange a glance as he fought with the umbrella.

“Did you go to Cool Beans?” Brian asked.

“It’s not actually very good,” Wensleydale added. “That’s why I don’t actually feel very guilty about working here.”

“Mr. Archer’s a twat,” Brian added. “Do you know, he won’t even sell you a tea?”

“Well, not all coffee places—” Crowley tried, but Brian cut him off, waving a hand covered in whipped cream.

“But Mr. Fell, his brother, runs the tea shop! He could just sell _his_ blends. Help him out.”

“Well, if the tea is anything like the coffee,” Crowley said, “then the less of that, the better.”

* * *

At his lunch break, Crowley headed back down to the coffee shop to drop off the umbrella, then set off to find this tea shop. It wasn’t on the main road, so he let Google Maps direct him. It took about three minutes to get there from the coffee place. There was a young guy at the counter in a pair of owlish glasses. A few people sat around the shop on the old-fashioned upholstered furniture chatting and sipping from delicate looking tea cups. There was a lot of weird apocalyptic art on the walls featuring angels and demons. In the back of the shop, clearly visible from where Crowley stood at the counter, was a monstrous sculpture of a demon and an angel whose fight had turned a little too friendly. He stared at it.

“May I help you?” said the kid at the counter.

“English Breakfast,” Crowley said. “Or...no. How about Medusa? What is that, a special blend or something?”

The kid stared at Crowley’s shirt, gaping slightly. “Mr. Fell!” he called. “Mr. Fell!”

Everyone in the shop turned to see what was happening. Holy hell.

The man who emerged from the back was the blond man from the coffee shop.

“Yes?” he said. His eyes looked a lot colder than they had that morning as they traveled over Crowley. Seeing the real him, this time, Crowley supposed. “May I help you?”

“I’d, ah, like to order a tea? Medusa.”

“Newt, can you make a Medusa tea for Mr. —I’m afraid I didn’t get your name?”

“Crowley.”

“Mr. Crowley.”

Newt nodded, still staring.

“Then please do so. Don’t forget your manners, dear boy. While he’s here, Mr. Crowley is to be treated as you would any customer.”

The man turned to walk away. Crowley felt inexplicably disappointed.

“Wait!” Crowley called. The man paused, still facing him. He looked at Crowley appraisingly. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Aziraphale,” he said. “Aziraphale Fell.”

“Anthony Crowley.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said. He offered Crowley a polite, perfunctory smile. “I do hope you enjoy your tea.”

He glanced around, and seemingly satisfied that Newt had correctly located the Medusa and was spooning it into the infuser, turned and walked away. His walk had an odd, floating quality, as if he were utterly directionless.

Newt poured boiling water into a teapot. Crowley realized then he’d not specified that he wanted it to take away. Everyone in the shop was still looking at him, rather furtively now, but it was impossible not to notice. Newt passed him a little blue and white teacup and saucer on a tray with the orchid pink teapot, and Crowley, feeling rather foolish, took it to a chair in a back corner. He poured the tea and sipped. It was a mixture of black and green teas, but it had an odd flavor. Piquant and spicy, and even with a little Hasta coffee in his system already, Crowley felt the caffeine hit him. There was something else to the tea, too, something briny, something electric. Something that hinted at danger, at glory.

It was just a cup of tea. But Crowley couldn’t stop sipping it, desperate to know what would happen next.

A. Z. Fell and Co, he thought, his eyes catching on the ridiculous little bags of coffee grounds on the shelf by the counter, was nothing like Cool Beans. Hasta would never take over the tea market in Tadfield. Not as long as Aziraphale Fell was in business.


	3. The Spooky Movie Festival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mention of past homophobia, implied homophobia.

Crowley came in almost every day. Mostly he ordered the Medusa, but he also tried the Hydra, the Lethe, Jupiter, and the Minotaur. He asked Aziraphale if he knew of any apartment openings, and Aziraphale was able to recommend the basement apartment below the local church. After this, some of the stiffness between them fell apart. Crowley spoke to him on the street, and they always smiled at each other. It felt genuine.

Aziraphale started to let himself look forward to Crowley’s appearances in his shop, to dwell on the delicate planes of Crowley’s face instead of pretending not to notice how lovely he was. In his back corner, Crowley took off his glasses as he sipped his tea and read the books Aziraphale left around the shop. (He even bought some, and was fond of discussing them with Aziraphale when he inquired about how he was enjoying his purchases.) His eyes were a warm honey brown. They were huge and expressive. Aziraphale tried not to ogle him, but so many times, when he let himself glance over at Crowley, he was met with an answering gaze and a small, satisfied-looking smirk.

One afternoon, when Crowley had been sitting in the shop, sampling teas for well over two hours, he waited until Newt left on his break and approached Aziraphale at the counter.

“Crowley, how can I help you?” Aziraphale said. He tried not to sound too eager.

Crowley grinned, mischievous and open, like he and Aziraphale had a secret together.

“Look, your tea...it’s no secret I’m a big fan, yeah? So what if you sold me some? Different blends. Sold Hasta some, I mean, and I could, could sell them at the local—at Hasta?”

“What? No!”

“Ah, come on. More money for you. If you can’t beat them—” Crowley looked down, and Aziraphale followed his gaze to the bags of Cool Beans coffee.

“Gabriel is my brother,” he said, weakly.

“And he doesn’t sell your tea...come _on_. Hasta’s not _your_ enemy. I mean, we don’t have to be. I’m not. You know _I’m_ not.”

Aziraphale hesitated. Crowley looked pleading, almost afraid, as if he _needed_ Aziraphale to agree with this last statement. Aziraphale tore his eyes away. “I cannot work with Hasta.”

Now Crowley smirked, skeptical, like it was only a matter of time.

“Fine,” he said. “Should have known, angel like you. Worth a try, though, anyway. Might try again.”

For some reason, Aziraphale felt heartened to hear it, and he got the distinct impression, based on the way Crowley’s uncovered eyes roved over him, that he could tell.

* * *

In August, Aziraphale swapped out Anathema’s wall art for posters for the various entries in the local Spooky Movie Festival.

He saw Crowley looking around at the change when he came in for his morning tea.

“What’s this festival?” he asked, as Aziraphale prepared his usual Medusa. “Might be interested. Big spooky fan, me.”

“Oh, it’s...well, it’s silly, really. Coming from London, you might get quite the wrong idea. Mostly local films, I’m afraid. Submissions from local hobbyists. Many people do it for a lark, you know. Just an excuse for an afternoon out.”

“Really? You in any of them?”

Aziraphale blushed. “I did allow some of the local children to make a short film featuring the tea house. A bit of a play on some of my more creative blends...I agreed to give a brief cameo as an evil potioneer.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open.

“You _what_?”

“Well.”

“No, no, this is too much. You’re planning to go, right?”

“Well, I’m not—” Normally, Aziraphale tagged along with his friend Tracy, who was a local psychic and very enamoured of all things otherworldly, but she was going to be away the first two weeks of August, and he hadn’t planned to go alone.

“No, no, come on. You can’t miss this. Come with me. I’m definitely going. I’m not going to miss this.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, trying to gauge his seriousness. His heart felt weightless yet loud. His face burned.

“I can sell you a ticket,” he said, reluctantly. All the local businesses had them.

“Oh, _please do_.”

“It’s twenty pounds.”

Crowley reached into his pocket and took out the note, slapping it onto the counter defiantly.

“And you?” he said. “Already got your ticket?”

“Entrants don’t pay,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley laughed again. “I’ll pick you up, yeah?”

 _Oh_.

“That would be lovely.”

Crowley grinned and gave a little wave.

* * *

The festival two weeks later was a dreamy affair. The air was hot and sticky, and the films were mostly too silly to demand much in the way of attention.

After cheers went up at Aziraphale’s cameo, they sat on the tartan blanket he had brought and talked. The conversation was easy, and natural. Crowley teased a little, but not so much it made Aziraphale want to hold back. He teased back and Crowley laughed and looked delighted each time. When the conversation turned more serious, Crowley told him about his father, who had passed away a few months before he came to Tadfield and who had written him out of his will when he’d discovered that Crowley was in a relationship with a man. Crowley had thought they’d had a good relationship before. But he said that in retrospect he could see that it was only because he’d never questioned his father before. Had never strayed from what was expected. He’d stayed in London with his partner until he broke up with Crowley when he realized they wouldn’t get the financial windfall he’d been expecting. He’d told Crowley he didn’t want to marry a shopkeeper.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. He could hardly rain the whole story of the Archer-Fell dynamic on him now. Perhaps the story of his coming out? But that was a quiet story. Aziraphale had simply informed his mother and brother—his father, Ezra Fell, had been dead for several years by then—and been met with disappointed sighs. There was no life-changing relationship to speak of; he’d only been tired of the constant questions and nudges toward various women, the looks of suspicion from his mother and Gabriel (as if being gay was something to be suspected of). But there had been no further difficulty from family. Unless you counted Gabriel implying that it was one more reason Aziraphale was his inferior. But Gabriel hoarded those as he did the money and prestige of the Archer name. Aziraphale had not been disinherited over his revelation. It was always understood that Gabriel, an Archer, would inherit their home and fortune. Ezra Fell had only owned the bookshop that Aziraphale had eventually turned into his teahouse. But even that had never been promised to Aziraphale.

“I’m so sorry, dear fellow. No one should be treated that way,” he said, finally. It sounded stilted, stiff. But now was hardly the time to declare that _he’d_ never treat him that way, that his partner clearly hadn’t understood how lucky he’d been to be with Crowley.

Crowley looked like he was afraid he’d said too much. He blinked as if he were waking up before shoving his sunglasses on and flopping back on the blanket. Aziraphale hesitated a moment, then lay back too.

“It’s good weather,” Crowley said.

“It’s boiling.”

“Good for sleep,” Crowley said. “Makes you tired.” He rolled onto his side, looking right at Aziraphale. There was something suggestive about the pose, about the way his body moved. His fingers brushed Aziraphale’s, once, twice.

Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes, so he turned his head away and swallowed. His heart lurched. Crowley probably hadn’t meant to do it. He was just getting comfortable for a nap. Aziraphale pretended not to notice the position, the touch. Even when, instead of napping, Crowley heaved a shaky sigh and sat back up.

At the edge of the park, Gabriel appeared, deep in conversation with Sandy, from the local chamber of commerce. He was a short, unpleasant man, whose eyes occasionally wandered away from Gabriel and up to the movie screen. Gabriel seemed to notice Aziraphale and Crowley and frowned. Sandy followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes. Crowley gave a chuckle and waved obnoxiously. Aziraphale laughed, caught by surprise. Across the way, Aziraphale saw Gabriel’s mouth shaping the words “useless brother.” Gabriel led Sandy away. They rounded the corner and passed out of sight.

“Your brother is really something,” Crowley said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling stupid. “Family can be difficult. Oh! I know you know that. Your father...I mean...I should have—”

“Hey, it’s OK, angel,” Crowley said. His voice had gone soft, concerned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to just, I—ngk.”

Aziraphale shook his head, trying to wake himself up before he derailed everything entirely. Over Gabriel.

“Want to go somewhere?” Crowley said. “Get out of the heat. Get some dinner, maybe?”

Crowley wasn’t trying to get rid of him. Aziraphale studied him, then looked around the park. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen.

“Perhaps the pub?”

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Crowley said, clearly relieved. He rose to his feet, a tangle of graceful limbs.

* * *

“This is just like when the Asda came!” R. P. Tyler said, shaking his head in righteous dismay. “They’re going to drive out the Archers’ business.”

“Oh, somehow I think the Archers will be just fine,” shouted Sergeant (no one knew what of) Shadwell. “Up in their big house, with all that money?”

“Excuse me, if I may,” Gabriel said, standing up. He smiled genially. Aziraphale found himself frowning, his own face twisted into an instinctive grimace at the sight of his half brother’s smile. Beside him, his friend Tracy gave his hand a squeeze. On his other side, Crowley had gone stiff.

“I did warn you,” Aziraphale whispered. He shot a glance at Crowley and noted the way his eyes lingered on Tracy’s hand, still holding Aziraphale’s.

“I’m a big boy,” Crowley muttered back. “Think I can handle it.”

“The Local Business Development Alliance,” Gabriel began, “has been very robust in this town. I’d like to remind everyone of the donation my family made just last year, a very generous donation of nearly ten thousand pounds to finance any new local businesses in need of a loan.”

Aziraphale scoffed. Harriet Dowling, one of the current town council members, was only planning to remain on the council until her divorce was final, and Gabriel had seized every opportunity to put himself forward as her successor. Eight thousand of the pounds “their family” had given had been his own, and here Gabriel found a way to take credit to boost his campaign. The only way to undo his assertion would be to stand up and boast about his own financial contributions, and Gabriel knew he would never.

“Now, Hasta la Coffee is not doing _me_ any favors,” Gabriel continued, to many affirming murmurs. “But let’s not lose our heads. Let’s figure out if there’s a way forward with them, rather than against them. Let’s not be anti-business.”

Aziraphale caught his eye. What was he playing at? Gabriel grinned at him, then let his eyes fall on Crowley beside him. Aziraphale swallowed. He felt Crowley shift uncomfortably. Again, he wanted to comfort him, but he had no idea how. No idea what Crowley would even expect from him. No idea what Gabriel would do if he actually reached out to Crowley, here, in front of everyone.

* * *

“What exactly are you doing?” Aziraphale asked. He’d finally managed to get Gabriel alone after the meeting. He was careful not to sound upset. It didn’t help. Gabriel scowled at him.

“Might ask you the same question. You looked awfully cozy with _him_.” Gabriel waved a dismissive hand, clearly disgusted.

Aziraphale felt his face grow hot. He hated himself for getting worked up, for letting Gabriel see his shame.

“Nonsense, Gabriel. Anyway, _he’s_ not _Hasta La Coffee_ , he just works there.”

“So, what, he’s your best friend now? Or are you _into_ _that._..sort of thing.”

Aziraphale sighed, face still burning. Sweat prickled at his neck, his armpits. Not for the first time, he wished family wasn’t forever.

“Of course not. Excuse me,” he said. Gabriel moved in front of the door, blocking him in.

“Look, call it whatever you want,” Gabriel said. “The place isn’t good for us, but we can’t drive them out. Not openly. The town needs more jobs, more attractions. It’s not all about us, you know? So I say we stick together. Hope they go away, sure, but we can’t campaign for it. We’ll just show them they’re not needed here. Market saturation, right? If we come right out and fight them, it just makes us look weak.”

Aziraphale scoffed.

“Well of course it’s not all about _us_ —but which is it, Gabriel? You can’t have it both ways.”

“Look who’s talking. You talk like this to your _boyfriend_?”

“Gabriel, _really_. We’re not friends. We hardly even know each other.”

Aziraphale started past him. But Crowley was there, just past the door. He wore his sunglasses, but his face was tight, angry. He hadn’t looked so dangerous since Aziraphale first met him. He’d heard the whole thing.


	4. Three Thousand Pounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, EveningStarcatcher.

“Crowley, wait!”

Crowley whirled around. Aziraphale’s face was pinched and pale. He looked flustered, tired, his hands wringing. They were half a block from the building where they’d had the town council meeting. Aziraphale must have followed him as he’d stormed off. It was one thing to find out that Aziraphale wasn’t attracted to him by overhearing a _very_ rude conversation between him and his overbearing brother, but how could Aziraphale say they weren’t friends? How could he claim they didn’t know each other? Even after the festival. Or maybe Crowley had just been making a fool of himself. Probably. His whole life was a joke.

“I didn’t mean it,” Aziraphale said, biting his lip. “Crowley, please, I am terribly sorry. I just...I didn’t know what to say to Gabriel. You don’t know what it’s like with him.”

Crowley let out a long breath. He was starting to think he did know.

“And Hasta,” Aziraphale continued, “you have to admit, hasn’t made things any easier for either of us.”

No, of course it didn’t. It sold decent coffee and substandard teas, and yet, it was convenient. It was new and shiny. Out-of-towners recognized it as a safe option. It was everything MorningStar was, and that hadn’t bothered Crowley much before, but this was Aziraphale. It was hurting him and his perfect, quaint little shop that was nothing like Crowley had ever experienced—something born out of love and the desire to share that with others. He didn’t even know he’d had that inside of him until he’d seen it so clearly here in Tadfield, with A.Z. Fell and Co. Crowley’s chest felt like it would crack open with the feeling that not only was he not understood, but that it was, in fact, impossible to know him at all.

“Angel—”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley stopped. What was he doing? Was he really going to let him off the hook that easily?

Of course he was.

“I think I do, sort of,” he said. “I...I get it.”

“Could we have lunch?” Aziraphale said. He blinked too fast, his shoulders hunched. He was trying.

“What about Tracy?”

“With her husband, I expect.”

“Her husband?”

Aziraphale smiled and tilted his head in a way Crowley could only describe as coy. “Sergeant Shadwell,” he said, mischievously.

“You’re _kidding_.”

* * *

The thing was, there was something Aziraphale needed to know. When they were at the festival, Crowley had _wanted_ to tell him about it, but Aziraphale had gotten so flustered when Gabriel had shown up that Crowley just couldn’t. The thing was...Aziraphale might be loyal to his terrible brother, but Gabriel wasn’t loyal to him. Not at all. Because back when Crowley had been in town for just a few weeks, something had happened. Crowley knew he should tell Aziraphale so he’d stop sacrificing himself for his twat older brother, but he couldn’t figure out how:

_Back in July, he’d been in town just a few weeks. He’d decided to try Cool Beans coffee again one morning. After all, people went there. (Though he’d noticed the American girl had switched to Hasta, and she wasn’t alone.) Maybe it had just been a bad batch._

_Gabriel was working the register. He had just finished brewing the coffee himself, so it was fresh._

_“So, you’re the Hasta manager,” said Gabriel._

_“I am, yeah.” Crowley took a sip of the coffee and tried not to blanch. It still tasted like burned cabbage mixed with hot kale juice._

_“I’ve been wanting to meet you. Gabriel Archer.” Gabriel stuck out his hand. Crowley shook it._

_“Anthony Crowley.”_

_“Right. Yeah. So, listen, how would you feel about selling some of my roasts at Hasta? Maybe I could sell you a few bags wholesale and you could just put them out with the merch? Give the place some local flavor.”_

_“Yeah,” Crowley said, frowning. He’d just offered to do something similar for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale had refused out of solidarity with his brother. And now the brother seemed to have no such scruples._ Mr. Archer’s a twat _, Brian had said. Pepper and Adam, his evening shift, had confirmed that this was, in fact, the case. Even so, Crowley decided to give him a chance._

_“So, you’d suggest what, I maybe sell a few of your roasts, some of your brother’s teas…?” he watched Gabriel carefully._

_“Oh, good heavens,” Gabriel said. “Why on earth would I expect you to sell Aziraphale’s teas? No. He’s deluding himself with that, I think. Tea is dying. Coffee is the future.”_

_Crowley frowned. “Leaving that for now. He sells your coffee,” he said. “And you just—”_

_“So you’re in? I can give you fifty bags today. Three thousand pounds. Come on, it’s a good deal.”_

_“Absolutely not. I am not in. Don’t know how you got that.” Crowley chucked the cup of coffee in the trash on his way out. He hoped it spilled. “Three thousand pounds,” he muttered. “Ridiculous.”_

* * *

Now, as he and Aziraphale made their way from the meeting to the pub, he looked over at him, still wringing his hands. He wanted to stop and step in front of him, take his hands and hold them. A look like that did not belong on his sweet face. But he didn’t know if Aziraphale would want that.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tried. “Gabriel’s not—he doesn’t control you.”

Aziraphale stopped walking. Crowley, taking a chance, did step around in front of him then, did take his hands. Aziraphale’s eyes were huge. His face wobbled slightly.

“Hey,” Crowley started, but then Aziraphale was in his arms, and it wasn’t at all like he’d imagined, because he was crying. Crowley didn’t stop to think, he just held him tight, held him close, rubbing little circles on his back.

“He does, though,” Aziraphale said into Crowley’s chest. “He’s ruining everything. You don’t understand. The shop—”

“What’s going on here?” Crowley looked up. Gabriel was standing on the street in front of them. He sneered at Crowley.

“Aziraphale, come now. This is just embarrassing. It’s bad enough you’re out in public with this...creature, but this is too much. You’re making a scene. No Archer—”

Crowley hadn’t let go of him, but Aziraphale pulled away abruptly. His face wobbled, but he squared his shoulders and drew himself up, facing Gabriel. “Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not an _Archer_ , isn’t it? At least, not until it suits you.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open, impressed. He watched Gabriel eagerly. He wasn’t expecting the way Gabriel shifted focus from Aziraphale, rounding on him instead.

“Leave my brother alone,” Gabriel said. He sounded cold, almost murderous. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “He’s too soft for his own good.”

“Doesn’t sound too soft to me,” Crowley said.

For a moment, Crowley thought Gabriel was going to hit him, but instead he shook his head and stalked off.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a small voice. “I think we’d better reschedule.”

“Wait,” Crowley reached out, but Aziraphale stepped away, too far away to touch.

“I’ll see you at the shop?” he said.

“Yeah, of course, but you—are you all right?”

Aziraphale gave an awful smile, his entire face the picture of devastation, except where the corners of his mouth turned up.

“Absolutely tickety-boo,” he said. “Mind how you go.” He didn’t wait for Crowley to go, but set off toward his shop. He seemed a little too heavy, this time, to float.

* * *

As Crowley passed Cool Beans, he felt a hand close around his arm. He flung it off, lashing out instinctively. Gabriel. Crowley had, unfortunately, just missed smacking him across the face.

“Crowley, listen to me, if you know what’s good for you. Sell my coffee. Bags and beans. And drinks. Use my coffee for the drinks, and I want a cut of sales.”

“I can’t make that kind of decision.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. For a moment, Crowley wondered if it was possible that Gabriel knew who he was. But how would he? He wasn’t a celebrity or anything.

“I think you have influence,” Gabriel said. “I think, under the right circumstances, Hasta and I could have a beautiful partnership. Do this or I will end you. Or, end Hasta, I mean, of course.”

Crowley sneered, then spat on the ground at his feet. Gabriel gave a shout and jumped back. His face had absolutely _curdled_. Crowley smirked. It was a crude thing to do, but it was worth it.

He sauntered back to Hasta and pretended not to notice that, aside from Pepper and Adam, it was completely empty. At lunchtime.


	5. A Rancid Sunday Roast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, EveningStarcatcher!
> 
> cw: homophobia, language, negative self-talk.

After Monday’s disastrous town council meeting, Aziraphale spent the rest of the day in his shop, distracting himself as much as possible. He gave Newt the afternoon off to keep busy, but it didn’t help. He kept thinking about Crowley and Gabriel. He’d shouted at Gabriel because of what he’d implied about Crowley. He’d reacted instinctively, not wanting Crowley insulted. But he shouldn't have spoken that way to Gabriel. And then he’d sent Crowley away, as if that would be enough to undo the damage. And now Gabriel was probably still angry with him, and Crowley too. Hurt _and_ angry, after what he’d overheard only minutes earlier after the meeting. He’d be lucky if Crowley wanted anything to do with him again. But why—why would he be _lucky_? He shouldn’t want that at all.

Crowley did not come in for a Hypnos or a Lethe that evening, as he occasionally did. Aziraphale made a Lethe for himself and took it up to bed with him after he’d cleaned up.

He woke on Tuesday too early, with a dull ache in his chest, as if he were grieving. He dressed in his softest trousers and cardigan, not caring how worn they were. He didn’t eat, but went down to the shop and made himself a Twelve Labours of Heracles tea. He’d need the energy.

He didn’t expect to see Crowley, but there he was, same as ever, when Aziraphale opened his shop.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley sidled up to the counter. He was smiling slightly, a mischievous little smirk. There wasn’t anything closed off or angry about him. Aziraphale felt relieved and tried to return the smile, but he had trouble meeting Crowley’s eyes. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. He always looked so different without them, compelling and open rather than standoffish and dangerous. It was harder to resist him this way.

 _Please let’s not talk about it_ , Aziraphale thought. _Please._

“Angel,” Crowley said, his grin growing as he leaned in, resting one elbow on the counter, chin in his hand. “You all right?”

“Fine. Medusa?”

“W—yeah, of course,” Crowley said. He didn’t stop looking at Aziraphale that way, like he was expecting something besides tea. Aziraphale turned and busied himself with starting the kettle, taking down the tea canister and cup. “Look, angel. What about selling me that tea for Hasta? Could really help me out, you know?”

“Help you?”

“Yeah...I, look, I shouldn’t tell you this, but we’re starting to lose business. Only going to get worse once the summer’s over. Think selling some local stuff might help. Smooth things over?”

“That is hardly _my_ concern,” Aziraphale said. He kept his eyes on the tea he was spooning into the diffuser. His hands shook.

“Yeah, see, I _know_. But Gabriel’s out to make things worse for me, and—”

“Crowley, _please_. I don’t wish to discuss my brother.”

“Fine, yeah. Just—”

Aziraphale set down the tea canister and turned to face him. He was shaking; anger was building in him now, threatening to push the anxiety out entirely. And then there was that lovely face, looking at him with something almost like a plea. Aziraphale sighed.

“ _Please_ , Crowley. This conversation is distressing me tremendously. I enjoy your company, but I will ask you to leave the shop if you insist on smearing my brother.”

“ _Smearing_? No, look, you’re loyal, I get that. Respect that. But _what if he’s not loyal to you_?”

“Gabriel has many faults, Crowley. I am well aware of that. But he is _principled_. Perhaps you could learn something from that.”

“Excuse me?”

Aziraphale blanched and took a deep breath. “What I mean is, perhaps this is a bit of deflection. Perhaps you feel guilty over your role at Hasta and this is a way for you to soothe your conscience.”

“My _conscience_. So you think I’m, what, depraved or something?”

“No, no, my dear fellow. Quite the contrary,” Aziraphale said. He turned and poured the water into the teapot. He was hot and uncomfortable and the anxiety was back—only now it felt more like fear. “I think you’re...I owe you a lunch.”

He didn’t want to lose Crowley. To lose the only new friend he’d made in years, and something else, too: those beautiful smiles and easy conversation and the brushes of his lithe, strong hands that thrilled Aziraphale and made him feel something so much like hope.

“Oh, yeah, so, what, you’re done, then? With the whole _angry_ thing?”

Hope. There it was again.

“As long as we can leave Gabriel out of this.” Aziraphale set the tea tray down on the counter.

Crowley scoffed as he pushed his credit card into the reader. “Not up to me, really,” he said darkly.

“Even so,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps Friday at noon?”

Crowley nodded. “Right. Yeah. See you then.”

Aziraphale absently watched the undulation of hips as Crowley walked to his usual table. He sat down and took out a laptop just as Newt arrived. Aziraphale nodded a greeting and slipped into his office to think.

* * *

He’d been hoping that things would settle. But as the week went on, they only seemed to escalate.

Every morning that week, Crowley arrived before Newt, so Aziraphale made him his tea. Crowley didn’t mention Gabriel, but when he took his seat, instead of reading Aziraphale’s books, he took out his laptop.

Thursday morning, Aziraphale sat down at the table with him after Newt had arrived. He’d thought maybe they could chat, as they did sometimes in the mornings. He didn’t expect the way Crowley looked up at him, flummoxed and frowning, like he didn’t want him there. Perhaps it was to be expected. They hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms lately.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No, no. You don’t intrude.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair distractedly. Aziraphale tried not to imagine what it would feel like under his fingers. “It’s just...there’s a lot to take care of. Work and all.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I completely understand.” He rose to his feet again.

Crowley frowned. “Aziraphale,” he said, “would you…?”

Aziraphale waited. Nothing else came out. “Would I what, dear boy?”

Crowley shook his head as if he were clearing it. “Never mind. It’s just. We’re still having lunch, right? I’m—I’m really looking forward to it, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, surprised. He felt relief and something else, something that warmed him inside, as if something sweet was melting, dripping down into him. “As am I, my dear.”

Crowley grinned devilishly. Aziraphale turned away, his face hot as he headed back to the counter. He’d do well to quit while he was ahead.

* * *

Friday dawned cold and gray, rain pouring from the sky. Aziraphale didn’t want to go out at all, even when it cleared up by mid-morning. He felt rather tired and slow.

When Crowley arrived for lunch, Aziraphale suggested that they eat in his flat. It was probably for the best. He could hardly stand it if Gabriel saw them and accosted them on the street again. Crowley seemed delighted with the notion. Perhaps he was under the weather, too.

“So, _your_ place?” Crowley said, following Aziraphale across the shop to the stairs. “I feel special. Never known you to ask anyone up to your flat.”

“I don’t often,” Aziraphale said, blushing. Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale made them sandwiches and a salad, and they sat at the table in his small kitchen, eating and chatting companionably. Crowley looked a little out of place, his sleek Hasta attire and flaming red hair a stark contrast to the muted colors and out-of-date furnishings of Aziraphale’s home.

Crowley had been telling him about the university kids who worked at Hasta. Pepper and Brian and Adam and Wensleydale. All charming locals Aziraphale had seen grow up.

“Wensleydale says that, ah, Cool Beans coffee isn’t what it used to be,” Crowley said, carefully.

“I don’t know why that would be,” Aziraphale said. “Granted, I’ve never liked coffee, but as far as I know, Gabriel has never altered his procedures.”

“Anathema Device has started coming to Hasta,” Crowley added. “Still comes even now.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you know, I think she and Newt have become rather attached.”

Crowley smiled. But he didn’t lean in or ask for more details the way Aziraphale had expected. Instead, he looked preoccupied.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Aziraphale said. “You normally enjoy my tawdry gossip.”

“Angel...look.” Crowley’s hand fell on top of Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. The hand was warm. He smiled at Crowley encouragingly and turned his own hand over beneath it, gripping the slim fingers.

 _Oh, yes, please_.

But they couldn’t. But still.

He squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley gave a tiny smile and looked into his eyes. “Things are getting pretty bad for me. I—I’ve got to get sales up or they’re going to close the store. We _need_ something local. I’d rather it was you than him. I’d rather help you. Sell _your_ things.”

It had been so happy, so _promising_ , only moments before, but now Aziraphale was aware of every sound from the shop below, every car passing by. The air in his flat was uncomfortably warm and humid. His voice stuck in his throat, but he finally managed to speak.

“Rather me than him? What do you mean? _Gabriel_ wouldn’t work with Hasta la Coffee.”

“Oh, you—I think he would. You—you heard him at the town _thing_ Monday. Not anti-business and all that.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and steadied himself. He withdrew his hand and laced his hands together on the table.

“That is precisely my point. Gabriel is very much in favor of _local_ businesses. He even uses a local supplier for his coffee beans. He wouldn’t risk his shop, or my shop—or anything local— just to secure a partnership for himself.” He gave a little huff, then stood up, picking up the plates from the table.

“Aziraphale, look,” Crowley said. Aziraphale did not turn around, but Crowley kept going. “Gabriel _asked_ me to sell his things. When I said _fuck no_ because his coffee tastes like a rancid Sunday roast, he started handing out damned _leaflets_ and today he’s got people _picketing_ Hasta. No one’s been in all day. At least some of which you would already know if you’d bothered to stick your head outside this week. He doesn’t care about principles! It’s just revenge. And here you are working yourself up, afraid to sell your own stuff, afraid to be seen in public with a _friend_ , just because—”

Aziraphale whirled around. “ _Crowley_ , I have known Gabriel my whole life, and—”

“See, that’s it!” Crowley got to his feet. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why don’t you see it? How can anyone so clever be so stupid?”

Aziraphale felt as if he’d been slapped. His chest felt as if it had been punctured. That was it, Crowley thought he was stupid. Just a stupid, out-of-touch old fool with his head in the sand. That was what this was. Pity, maybe. Or just manipulation. He took a deep breath and leaned back against the counter. He needed to keep his head. He needed to calm down.

“Angel—I’m sorry.” Crowley held out his hands in supplication. “I shouldn’t have—fuck, I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale said. He felt like something should happen when he said it, like it should help.

Instead, Crowley’s face went from panicked back to pleading. “So, then you’ll do it? You’ll let me sell your stuff?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, we are...not on the same side of this dispute. I think I have made this quite clear.”

“ _We’re_ not on sides at all. Don’t have to be. Think about it: you could keep me around a bit longer and show Gabriel what’s what. We could be on our _own_ side.”

“There is no _our side_ , Crowley. Whatever _this_ is…”

“Whatever _what_ is?” Crowley growled. It sounded like a dare. Aziraphale trembled; he’d never been good at that sort of thing.

“I don’t know, but it’s...it’s _over_.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Now, I need to...I need to clear up and get back to it. I think you’d better—”

“Yeah, I’d better.” Crowley gave a little shake of his head, his jaw jutting out defiantly. He shoved on his sunglasses. As he got to the door of Aziraphale’s flat, he turned around. His jaw had softened. “Aziraphale—I—I’m sorry, angel. You’re not. Not stupid. Bloody clever, you are. But that’s just...that’s just it. See? Work with me here. Come on. I’m apologizing, all right? I don’t want it to be over with us. That’s all I mean. All I’m trying to do. Stay a little longer in Tadfield. With you.”

“With _me_?” _Dear God_ , was this really happening? It wasn’t all just some desperate, pathetic fantasy?

“No?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He couldn’t hear this. Even if Crowley claimed to feel something too, that didn’t mean Aziraphale could just renege. It wasn’t real, not real the way things were with the shop, with Gabriel. If he got on the wrong side of Gabriel, everything would come crashing down. He could see that now.

“Right,” Crowley said. “Well, then.”

* * *

After Crowley left, Aziraphale waited a few moments, then went downstairs only to find Gabriel at the counter waiting for him. _Oh no. He’d seen Crowley._ Newt kept casting Gabriel furtive, nervous looks.

“Sorry,” he mouthed at Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale! Got a minute?” Gabriel didn’t wait for an answer before pulling him into the office and slamming the door behind them.

“Look, sunshine,” Gabriel said. “I am _losing business_.”

“I—”

“We had an _agreement_ about this place. Not a contract. And that agreement was a family one. But you’re not acting like family. Having the...the _competition_ up to your private residence in the middle of the day. A private residence you only have because of my generosity. So, I think you know what I’m saying.”

“Gabriel, we have been over this. This building was my father’s—”

“And yet, there was no provision for you in the will.” Gabriel pouted, but his eyes were flat.

“I can _purchase_ the building from you,” Aziraphale said, frantic. “You know I have the money.” He knew it wouldn’t work. It was nothing he hadn’t tried years ago, over and over again. _I prefer to keep things simple,_ Gabriel had said, back then. _No point splitting everything up. It’s not like you’re going to have children. I’ll be the one with heirs._

“I’d rather sell it publicly,” Gabriel said. “Turn a better profit that way. Competition, you know? Right, of course you know about competition, fucking it in the middle of the day and all. _Shameless_ , Aziraphale. If you think people aren’t _talking_...”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “I’m not—so...you’re just—”

“I’m looking for buyers. This is just your warning. But if my shop is suffering, you should know, sunshine, that your days are numbered too.”


	6. Enough of a Bastard to Be Worth Knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta, EveningStarcatcher.

Crowley stormed out of Aziraphale’s shop. He should have known he couldn’t make this work. There was too much against it. But he couldn’t forget, had never forgotten, the kind look in Aziraphale’s eyes the first time they’d met, how he’d gone out of his way to help. The softness of his plump hands. Crowley didn’t do a lot of dating; he wasn’t attracted to very many people, and he’d never felt like this about anyone so quickly. Aziraphale was conflicted, but he’d thought they could get past that.

But he’d been wrong. There was no getting past something Aziraphale didn’t want to let go of. And he’d made it very clear that he did _not_. Crowley wasn’t worth it. Which, OK, maybe that was fair. Gabriel was his brother. And Crowley was, well, Crowley. Aziraphale wasn’t the first person to decide he wasn’t worth much.

It was just _Gabriel_. He was awful to Aziraphale. Why couldn’t Aziraphale break free? If it came down to Crowley or Gabriel, why wasn’t Crowley the more appealing option?

Crowley was so preoccupied that he nearly missed seeing the object of his ire as he passed him on the opposite side of the street. Gabriel glared openly. Crowley resisted the urge to give him the two-fingered salute. As he passed out of sight Crowley felt a sense of calm come over him. Aziraphale had said he used a local supplier for his beans. Maybe Crowley could find out the name of the supplier. See if the beans were just as bad if Gabriel wasn’t the one doing the roasting. Maybe they could offer the supplier a better deal than Cool Beans, if they were any good. And maybe his Hasta would stay open, and he wouldn’t have to move back to London. Wouldn’t have to give up on Aziraphale.

But that was nonsense. Wasn’t it? Aziraphale had said it was over before anything had even started.

Outside of Cool Beans, Crowley hesitated, looking back down the street in time to see Gabriel round the corner toward A. Z. Fell and Co. Crowley darted inside the coffee shop and made for the bags on the shelf. He snatched one down and read it.

_Cool Beans Roastery_

_Local_ _beans_

That was _not_ helpful.

“Hey!” said a voice from the counter. Crowley turned to find a skinny, floppy-haired barista staring at him. He was small and pale, but other than his size, he looked about the same age as Adam and Pepper and the rest. His nametag read _Warlock_. “Aren’t you from Hasta?”

“What if I am?”

“Are you here to buy beans?”

“Who’s your supplier?”

Warlock frowned. “Look—” he said. “Mr. Archer’s not here—”

“Yeah, I’m not asking Mr. Archer; I’m asking you. Don’t want to tell me? Fine. I get it. Look, this will help out the local—”

Warlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. This place _sucks_. What do you want to know? Our regular supplier? Or the one we _claim_ to use?”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Eh, both? Which one’s local?”

“Well they’re both technically local. Four Horsemen is cheap. That’s why we use them. But we _tell_ everybody we mostly use The Chattering Nun. Have you met Mary Hodges? It’s her company. She’s got nonprofit coffee farms or whatever in Africa and South America.”

“And Four Horsemen?”

“Local office and warehouse. Less than an hour off. No idea where they get their beans. And the people who run it...they’re weird.”

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

That would be quite enough, Crowley thought. He wished he could tell Aziraphale. He’d called his brother _principled_. But, well, that was over now. He wouldn’t be telling Aziraphale anything.

* * *

Crowley was so busy trying to set things up with Hasta and the local coffee bean vendors that he barely spent any time in Tadfield aside from sleeping. Four Horsemen’s warehouse was secluded, but the land was curiously bereft of any trees or other vegetation. The building was a large, concrete block. It reminded Crowley a little of his flat in London, but...creepier. And not in a fun, spooky sort of way. Their coffee was foul, even when he sampled it in their tastery, which explained a lot. They were excited to hear from Hasta La Coffee. _Weirdly_ excited. One of their executives literally rubbed her hands together in glee when he said his branch was in Tadfield.

“Isn’t that where Cool Beans is?” she asked. “Oooh. _Conflict._ ”

Another executive, a tall, thin man, laughed. “The more places we can sell our beans the better. Do you know, they’re entirely calorie-free?”

“It’s about the only thing they’re free of,” said the third executive. They all laughed.

Crowley did not meet the fourth executive. He got the powerful sense that he didn’t want to.

Chattering Nun was good, even if the trip out to the converted convent did take ages, partly because once he’d arrived, it was difficult to _leave_. Mary Hodges asked so many questions, at first he feared she had her own agenda, but eventually he realized she just enjoyed talking.

He wrote up his recommendation that they try The Chattering Nun as a supplier. It was a long shot, when you considered the size of her company versus the volume Hasta would be expecting. He sat at a table in Hasta as he worked, sipping coffee he’d made himself. He didn’t go back to A. Z. Fell and Co. When he walked past it in the morning, he averted his eyes. He told himself it didn’t matter. He’d be leaving town soon anyway. Once the Hasta closed, there would be no reason to stay.

Once it was done, there was nothing to do but wait to hear back. Crowley spent the next few nights taking sleeping pills so he wouldn’t lie awake, thinking of Aziraphale left alone to defend himself against Gabriel (which Crowley knew he would not), and picturing the cruel barbs of his own social circle back in London. Perhaps he needed to start over yet again, somewhere else entirely. There were Hastas everywhere.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Bee had said, laughing, when he’d told them he was going to leave London and work for Hasta La Coffee.

It wasn’t the future he’d seen for himself. But for just a second, he’d thought there might have been a glimmer of something better.

* * *

The deal fell through Saturday morning. Hasta had reached out to The Chattering Nun, to Crowley’s surprise, but Mary Hodges had declined to work with them. They’d even tried Four Horsemen, but they had raised their prices significantly compared to what they’d quoted Crowley. The store would be closing, effective next week.

That evening, when he got off at Hasta, he decided to try Aziraphale. Just have a cup of tea, see how he was. Say goodbye.

* * *

He felt nervous as he walked in, even when he saw the usual evening knitting circle in the back, even when he saw that Cool Beans barista kid, Warlock, playing Yahtzee with Wensleydale in the corner. Newt was sweeping, and there was no one at the counter.

“Hi, Crowley,” Newt said, sadly. “Lethe or Hypnos?”

“Is Aziraphale here?” Crowley said.

Newt flinched. “Let me get him,” he said, quietly.

Crowley frowned, opening his mouth in confusion, and approached the counter as Newt went into the office. Crowley only heard him say, “Mr. Fell,” before Aziraphale emerged. He looked at Crowley, then away, a series of darting, furtive glances.

“Oh, Crowley! What can I get for you? Newt, why didn’t you help Crowley?” He looked at Newt in confusion.

“I asked for you,” Crowley explained.

“I see,” Aziraphale said. He nodded at Newt, who went back to sweeping. “Perhaps...you’d better come into the office.”

Crowley had never been into the office. He followed Aziraphale inside, looking around at the high-backed chair pulled up to the old-fashioned desk buried under a huge, ancient white computer and piles of books, mostly Jane Austen and Greek mythology.

“I’m leaving, angel,” Crowley said. “Shop’s closing.”

Aziraphale looked down at the desk. His shoulders were drawn and his face looked about to crumple.

“Is that why you did it?” he whispered.

“Did what?”

“I know you don’t get on with Gabriel. But his suppliers are now out of his price range due to Hasta’s interest in working with them. He’ll lose money at an alarming rate if he continues business as usual.”

“Oh,” Crowley hadn’t thought of that. He might not have cared if he had—Gabriel was Gabriel—but Aziraphale obviously felt differently. “Angel, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You and he and this _ridiculous_ rivalry. Why, Crowley? Why couldn’t you just try to get on with him?”

“I didn’t—”

“What did you think? That he’d welcome you to town?”

“ _You_ did.”

There was a terrible silence, but Aziraphale didn’t deny it.

“Look,” Crowley tried. “I really didn’t mean to start anything. But he’s an arse. And the way he treats you—”

“You’ve hardly improved things for me. Did you know that Gabriel owns this building? My shop and my flat. And now it’s been sold. So,” Aziraphale raised his hands in a defeated gesture. He looked as if he might faint. “I have until next week to clear out for the new buyers. I have until next week to get rid of everything. Everything I’ve worked my whole life—”

“No,” Crowley growled. He was suddenly behind the desk, reaching for Aziraphale. He didn’t know why except that Aziraphale was an angel, and angels shouldn’t fall.

Aziraphale let him touch, let him close his arms around him. He felt stiff in Crowley’s arms, but he didn’t try to pull away.

“I know you thought you were helping me,” Aziraphale said carefully. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt us.”

“I’m so sorry,” Crowley said. “So, so, sorry, angel.”

“That’s just it,” Aziraphale said, and then Crowley felt his grip around him tighten, felt his body go softer against him as he buried his face against Crowley’s shoulder, shaking. “I keep telling myself I should be angry at you. And I can’t, Crowley, I can’t. It’s Gabriel’s fault. He doesn't have to do this to me. He could sell me the building. I would pay a fair price and it would be enough for him to get back on his feet. But he wants to be cruel. He wants to punish me.”

“It’s OK, angel.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t deserve to be treated this way.”

“You don’t.”

“I deserve to have things that I want. I deserve stability and respect.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“You stood up for me.”

“I tried. Did a shit job.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I won’t hear it. Thank you, Crowley.” He let go of Crowley and stepped back. “Perhaps…”

Perhaps what?

But then Aziraphale shook his head, dashing Crowley’s hopes. “Despite everything, I am glad we met. I think you are, at heart, a good person. I hope things turn around for you, my dear.”

“And you,” Crowley said. “Are just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I should get back to work,” he said, softly. “If you’d like a tea, Newt will take care of it.” His hand twitched, reaching out, then back down. Crowley reached for it and held it.

“Angel—”

“Goodbye, my dear,” Aziraphale said. His face wobbled as he extricated his hand.

“Goodbye,” Crowley said. Or croaked. Whatever.

Aziraphale pulled out his chair and gave Crowley a sad, indulgent smile, then turned back to his book. It was starting to get weird, Crowley just standing there, so Crowley spun on his heel and walked out.

He asked Newt for a Lethe for takeaway and wished it would live up to its name.


	7. Some Prat or Whatever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, EveningStarcatcher!

_You can move back into your old room as long as you’re quiet_ , Gabriel had said, when he’d told Aziraphale there was a buyer. _Who am I kidding, of course you’re quiet. You and your books. Always alone. But you don’t even get lonely, do you? Never change, Aziraphale, never change._

Aziraphale hated himself. He had no intention of moving into the room, of course. Tracy had offered to let him stay at hers until he could sort out somewhere of his own (Gabriel had reminded him that Crowley’s tiny flat below the church would soon be available), but there was nowhere to put his books, his teas. Tracy and Shadwell lived in a small cottage, and he couldn’t possibly impose for more than just the guest bedroom.

He hadn’t gone out much since Crowley had come into the shop, and Crowley hadn’t been back in since. Anathema had stopped by the day before and taken away the last of her art. For the last two days, he’d closed the shop, so he and Newt could pack the tea in plastic bins and the books in boxes. He might rent a storage unit, but it wouldn’t solve the problem of where to put the tea or the crates of first editions currently in his office. Or the furniture, the shelves—antiques that had been in the little shop since it had belonged to Aziraphale’s father and sold only musty, academic tomes of the type that had eventually caused Aziraphale to flee from academia. For the tea, the books, and the antiques, he’d need somewhere temperature controlled, and there was nothing like that nearby. Nothing, further out, even, that he’d been able to find on such short notice. Gabriel had been very clear that he had to move it all immediately for the buyer. There was nowhere for it but the Archer house. Gabriel would be extremely satisfied to have predicted him so thoroughly.

As they stacked the last of his things in the storefront, Aziraphale forced himself to smile at Newt.

“I expect that’s the best we can do tonight,” he said. “Thank you, my dear. Tomorrow we’ll load the truck and make the trip up to the house. Try to squeeze in as much as we can.” _And hope Gabriel doesn’t know how much any of it’s worth._

“I could probably take something,” Newt said. “I mean, if you just need a spot to keep it for a while. It would have to be something small, I’m afraid.”

“You are very kind,” Aziraphale said. “But I can’t accept that. Not when I don’t know how long it will be before we can find a new place. Your next wage packet from me will be your last for some time. Perhaps you’ll find something else.”

He’d already explained this, but the guilt hadn’t ebbed, so he felt Newt hadn’t understood. But Newt just nodded, smiling sadly. At the door, he turned and looked at Aziraphale.

“It was special, this shop,” he said quietly. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale locked the door behind him and pressed his lips together tightly as he went up to the flat. He ate takeaway and washed his dishes in silence (the gramophone had already been packed). The teas had been stored, and even his personal supply had been packed, so after his bath, he drank a little brandy from a mug and went straight to bed.

* * *

There was someone in the shop. He’d woken in the night, and he could hear them. His first thought was Adam’s bunch. But no, they were too old now for those sorts of shenanigans. Cautiously, he made his way to the stairs, listening to the dull sounds of furniture being moved, the door being opened, voices whispering.

Had Gabriel brought the buyers in early? Hired someone to cart off everything?

But as he reached the top of the stairs, he recognized them: Yes, there were Adam, and Pepper, and Wensleydale, and Brian. There were Tracy and Shadwell—that made sense, as Tracy had a key, just in case—there were Newt and Anathema. There was even Warlock from Gabriel’s shop.

“What—?” he began.

“Oh! Aziraphale!” Tracy shouted, and started for him. Aziraphale felt self-conscious in his pajamas, but he came down the stairs. “We’ve found a place for you. Well, for your things, I mean. Of course _you’re_ staying with me and the Sergeant. But plenty of room for everything! It’ll all be saved, love. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“I don’t understand. What place? How did you find something I didn’t?”

“I didn’t find anything,” Tracy said. “It’s your _other_ friend.” She leaned in and gave his shoulder a conspiratorial nudge.

“My other _friend_?

“ _You_ know,” Tracy said. “Slinky hips, legs for days...big doe eyes.”

Aziraphale peered out into the dark shop, at the poorly lit figures now wrestling one of his massive bookshelves into the back of a moving van.

She was right. Wensleydale, Warlock, and Newt were inside the shop, struggling with boxes. But through the window, Aziraphale could see that there were six figures, not five. Shadwell, Anathema, Pepper, Brian, Adam, and…

“ _Crowley_?”

Tracy squeezed his arm. “Just so, love.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No, that isn’t—that can’t be right.”

“He’s right out there. Why don’t you go and talk to him, then? Came over to mine earlier this week, he did. Wanted to know where you’d go, if there was anything he could do. He said he felt he couldn’t ask you, that he’d imposed on you enough.”

“Well, we can’t put the things in his flat, certainly.” Aziraphale watched as Warlock hefted an enormous plastic container of tea and, walking rather precariously, made it through the door at least. “There’s not enough space. He wouldn’t be able to—oh, but he’s leaving. I suppose that’s why. It’s just for the month, then.” That made sense. That would mean Aziraphale could calm down, could stop his heart from pounding, could maybe even start to breathe properly again, once the dull ache was back in his chest where it belonged.

“Oh, no, love. He’s got somewhere else in mind. Why don’t you come along and see?”

* * *

As they moved the last of his shelves into the truck, Aziraphale made his way upstairs and dressed quickly. Back downstairs, the truck had pulled away, and most of the others had gone, but Tracy had waited for him.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Tracy just looped an arm through his and led him out of the shop, going left rather than right, away from the main road. He frowned. There wasn’t much within walking distance in this direction. Mostly just homes and churches and the town council building.

But Tracy led him past all of that. They rounded the corner at the laundromat and came out at the corner on Main Street in front of the Hasta La Coffee building. The street lights illuminated the moving truck parked in front of it. Several people stood behind the truck as Crowley unlocked it and pushed the rear door up, his t-shirt riding up slightly, showing a flat, but soft looking stomach. Aziraphale swallowed as Crowley, not wearing his sunglasses, caught his eye, then looked away.

“I don’t understand.”

“Your Mr. Crowley,” she said, as they approached. As if that explained.

“This is an Hasta La Coffee,” he said. “Surely we can’t simply squat—”

“He bought it,” Tracy said. “He bought the building from Hasta. Said it’s yours as long as you need it.”

Aziraphale started forward. Crowley glanced at him again, then set down the box he was holding and started toward him too.

“What is this?” Aziraphale said, when they were close enough to talk quietly.

“I ruined everything,” Crowley said. “Fucked up my own life in London, then I came here and did yours too. Least I could do is try to fix it. No time limit, OK? If you want, you could even remodel and...and run your shop here.”

“I can’t afford the rent on a place like this, Crowley.”

“No rent,” Crowley said. “You don’t even have to have anything else to do with me. Just—please, angel, just don’t remember me as some prat or whatever.”

“I could never.” Aziraphale reached out and grabbed his hand. It felt dusty, sweaty, but he didn’t care. They stood there looking at each other until Aziraphale saw Newt lift Aziraphale’s computer monitor out of the truck. It crashed to the ground. Aziraphale averted his eyes and looked at Crowley again. “I do wish you wouldn’t leave.”

Crowley’s eyes went wide.

“W—Y—I don’t really have to. I could—could stay and find something here. A job. If you...if you want. Or anywhere, really. I mean, if you wanted to leave. Anywhere you want to go.”

“Well...perhaps _one day_ we could go for a picnic,” Aziraphale said. “Dine at the Ritz.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Of course. But, I mean, what about now?”

“Ah, yes. Well, _right now_ , Crowley, I think I would rather like for you to kiss me.”

Crowley tugged gently on Aziraphale’s hand, pulling him closer.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he said, leaning in. He reached a hand up to Aziraphale’s hair, which he hadn’t arranged before leaving his flat. Aziraphale didn’t care. Crowley’s hand smoothed it, and he brought their foreheads together, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale could feel his breath. _Yes, yes,_ he thought. It all hardly seemed real.

But then headlights swept over them, and there was the sound of a car approaching down the otherwise deserted street. The sound of its door banging shut. Aziraphale drew back, looking around, still in Crowley’s arms. Crowley groaned but didn’t pull away. Aziraphale squinted into the lights. Oh, of course: Gabriel.


	8. MorningStar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, EveningStarcatcher.

Crowley didn’t want to let go of Aziraphale, but he did, anticipating his discomfort. He knew he wouldn’t want Gabriel seeing them together like this. But Aziraphale didn’t step away. Crowley could see his face in profile. He looked nearly murderous, but it was nothing compared to the look on Gabriel’s face.

“What the hell?” Gabriel stalked toward them, arms swinging. “Aziraphale? What is going on here?”

“I’ve found a place for my things,” Aziraphale said, coolly. “Or, well, Crowley has. He’s bought the building for me.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand close over his, squeezing lightly. His heart pounded.

Gabriel’s eyes swept over him, over the two of them together. Then he smiled.

“You think I don’t know who you are, _MorningStar_?”

Crowley flinched. Aziraphale’s face changed then. He looked concerned and hurt. He let go of Crowley. Because of course he did. He might have been able to forgive him for working for an Hasta. But MorningStar was in his blood.

“Aziraphale—” he tried. He’d never meant to _hide_ it. In fact, after this whole buying a building stunt, he’d figured he’d have to explain how an Hasta manager could afford to do that. It wasn’t a secret anymore—it couldn’t be. He’d accepted that.

He just didn’t like talking about it. He wasn’t even really sure how he felt about it yet, much less how to begin telling Aziraphale.

“Crowley, what—?” Aziraphale started. Crowley couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see his face.

“That’s right, sunshine,” Gabriel said, happily. “ _This_ turncoat is the heir to MorningStar Roastery. This whole Hasta... _thing_ is just corporate espionage. Didn’t you wonder how he could just drop that kind of money on _you_ of all things?”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide.

Crowley closed his eyes and wished for his sunglasses. That wasn’t it at all, but he didn’t know how he could explain when he’d never even mentioned MorningStar to Aziraphale.

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said, sounding pained.

Crowley grimaced and stepped back, he could feel his arms starting to cross over his chest. They’d been so close, and now it was just more of the same. But then he felt hands on his arms, lowering them, finding his hands. He opened his eyes and found Aziraphale looking at him with something like wonder.

“ _Darling_ , oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You could have told me.” Crowley shook his head and tried to turn away, embarrassed, but Aziraphale didn’t let go. He studied Crowley’s face, then slid his arms around him and pulled him into a firm hug. Crowley held on. “Oh, you could have told me, my dear.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not...it wasn’t like, wasn’t _corporate espionage_. And I didn’t mean to _lie_. It’s just I—”

“I understand why you didn’t,” Aziraphale said, soothingly. “It’s all right. I understand.”

It was like Gabriel was gone, Crowley thought, then forgot he was there. He closed his eyes and savored the feel of Aziraphale in his arms, Aziraphale holding him close. Aziraphale, choosing him.

“He left me something after all,” Crowley muttered. “Not much. But enough to buy—enough to fix what I—I didn’t—I should have—”

“Shh,” Aziraphale said. “It’s all right. I’m not going anywhere. Thank you, Crowley. I haven’t thanked you, but I am so very grateful.” Crowley felt something crack open in his chest. He tightened his arms around Aziraphale. It was too much; he shouldn’t be letting this happen, shouldn’t be letting Crowley just stand here like this, just _be_ here like this, with him. But he _was_. Crowley loved him. He _loved_ him. And they hadn’t even...

 _“Fuck_ ,” he whispered, swallowing. He couldn’t _cry_ now. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried not to crush Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale—” Gabriel started.

“Gabriel, please leave,” Aziraphale said, his voice calm. “Leave now. You’ve no reason to be here. I’m out of your building at the moment, so none of this is your concern.”

Crowley drew back, though it was hard, with his chest filling up like this. He kept hold of Aziraphale’s hand. “We’ll get the rest of his stuff tomorrow from the flat,” Crowley said. “But we’re on my property now, so, yeah. Leave now. Leave him alone.”

“Leave _us_ alone,” Aziraphale said. “Please.”

Gabriel’s eyes flashed. “How dare you speak to me that way?”

“You don’t have anything over him anymore,” Crowley snarled, he let go of Aziraphale and stalked toward him. “He’ll _speak_ to you however he likes.”

Aziraphale’s hand landed on Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley stopped. It wouldn’t do any good to finally have this and squander it over getting in a well-deserved punch to Gabriel’s smug face. That was too much too fast for Aziraphale.

Gabriel sneered at Crowley. His eyes swept over the group of people still moving furniture.

“I don’t suppose you’d want to _help_ ,” Aziraphale said. He sounded skeptical, but Crowley could detect the glimmer of hope beneath his words.

But Gabriel just scoffed, not even looking at him.

“Warlock!” he shouted. “I need you for Cool Beans business.”

Warlock froze. Adam frowned and nodded at Pepper. They set down the table they were carrying and approached Warlock. Wensleydale and Brian joined when they came back out of the building. The five of them muttered to each other.

“Really, Gabriel? Cool Beans business? In the middle of the night?” Aziraphale said.

“Not very credible,” Crowley muttered.

Gabriel ignored this. “Warlock, now!” he shouted.

Warlock nodded at Adam and Pepper and ran over. Gabriel shook his head at Aziraphale and Crowley. They watched as he followed Gabriel to Cool Beans and stood with him outside the shop door, clearly enduring a lecture.

“What do you think that’s about?” Crowley asked.

“I imagine that Gabriel doesn’t want him helping me,” Aziraphale said. “Never mind that I’m the one who was able to get him the position at Cool Beans to begin with. He wanted to work at my shop, but I didn’t need the help and really couldn’t afford it at the time. And Gabriel is always so busy with things outside of his shop.”

Crowley scoffed.

Seconds later, Gabriel stalked to his obnoxiously large vehicle, slamming the door as he got in, and drove off, the engine revving loudly as he pulled away. Warlock walked away, looking dejected. Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, who met his eyes. This was it, really, now. No one watching, no points to make. He should explain, really. And he should get ready for it to not be enough. It was just him, after all. That was all he could offer.

“Angel—” Crowley began.

“I don’t care who your father was, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I remember what you told me about him. I see now that there was even more at stake than just your relationships. I am so sorry, my dearest. You’ve lost so much.”

 _Dearest. What?_ Crowley couldn’t think. He floundered. He still needed to explain. Aziraphale couldn’t be that understanding, that trusting. _Dearest_. He’d never heard him say that before. But he said things like that. Didn’t he? Didn’t mean...

“Yeah, well he...left me a few thousand quid. Just found out last week. But I spent the money. On the building, I mean. So.”

“Crowley, I don’t _care_ about the money,” Aziraphale said. “But I do care very much about what we were doing before we were interrupted.”

“Yeah? So maybe we can—”

Aziraphale closed the distance between them and put a soft hand to Crowley’s cheek. Crowley made a weird, high-pitched noise, but he didn’t have time to be too embarrassed because they were kissing, Aziraphale’s lips soft against his. After a moment, he remembered that he had hands, arms, and he brought them up to Aziraphale’s waist to press gently against his back and hold him closer.

A cheer broke out among the moving crew. Crowley looked over. Only Sergeant Shadwell was still moving boxes, but even he wore a grim smile. Everyone else was whooping and applauding. Crowley flipped them off, and they laughed. Aziraphale didn’t even seem to notice.

“ _How_ long?” Aziraphale asked, tracing fingers over his cheeks. “You said you wanted to do it for a long time.”

“You gave me an umbrella,” Crowley said. “Your hand brushed against mine. It was so soft.”

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale said. And kissed him again.


	9. Campaign Headquarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, EveningStarcatcher.
> 
> cw: please check the update to the tags (added one right at the end there) and there is some swearing in this chapter.

Over the following week, Aziraphale kept an eye on his old shop, but he missed the moment they took down the name from over the door (which he found out when Brian brought it to him at Tracy’s one day).

“Found it out with the trash heap,” he muttered. “Didn’t seem right.”

Shadwell leapt up from his seat. “Trash heap?” he snarled. “Is this Gabriel Archer? I’ll show that overstuffed mannequin what belongs on a trash heap.”

Brian’s eyes grew wide and he edged away and out quietly.

Aziraphale, feeling sad, but curious, took the sign to his room and left not long after.

He walked down a block to Crowley’s flat in the church basement and knocked. Crowley let him in and he stood awkwardly in front of the door. He’d been in before, the night they’d moved his things. Crowley had been tired, but not too tired for Aziraphale, he’d said. It had been a good night. Much better than Aziraphale had imagined the night would be when he’d gone to bed for the last time in his own little flat. When he awoke, he’d even wondered if he’d dreamt that last wonderful part, but then he opened his eyes to Crowley’s little bedroom, a fan of red hair spread across the pillow, freckled shoulders peeking out from beneath the sheets.

Now Crowley looked at him expectantly. It was very tempting to try to forget his troubles, but that wasn’t why he’d come here.

“Would you fancy a walk?” he asked. “I want to see what’s happened with the shop. I’ve heard that the new owners have already taken down the sign and...” Crowley’s hands found his where they were twisting in front of him and stilled them. He sighed as Crowley kissed his lips.

“Yeah, of course,” Crowley said. Together, they made their way down to the corner where their building stood. They passed Cool Beans; then, before they turned onto the side street, Crowley wrapped a protective arm around him.

“ _What_. The _hell_.” Crowley said as they rounded the corner.

Gabriel had lied. The shop hadn’t been sold to new owners. He’d just wanted it for himself. He’d just wanted Aziraphale out. The storefront had been blocked off with large cubicle dividers. And on the outsides of them were signs. The same signs that had been plastered all over Tadfield all summer, with one addition:

_Gabriel Archer for Town Council: Campaign Headquarters_

“Who needs fucking headquarters for a town council election?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave a strangled cry and found himself pulled into Crowley’s arms, felt Crowley’s hands gently stroking through his hair. He did not resist. He did not care who saw. He allowed Crowley to lead him away, gripping his hand.

“Let’s go home to mine,” Crowley said. “I’ll cook. We can open a bottle of wine—”

“No, let’s finish our walk,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s walk through the park, then we can go to the pub for dinner. I can’t let him take the whole town away from me.”

“Right,” Crowley said, surprised. He gave Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze. “Brave, you are,” he added. “When it was me, I just ran.”

“That was different,” Aziraphale said. “I think it took a great deal of courage to come into Tadfield sight unseen and provoke not one, but two of the town’s stalwart local business owners.”

“Courage. Ignorance. Foolishness.”

Aziraphale kissed him. “Wiles.”

Crowley gave him a skeptical, sideways smile.

“Well, you certainly kept me on my toes.”

* * *

Aziraphale decided to try to operate from the Hasta building. They had Aziraphale’s old sign hung up right away and they took the rest of the week setting up the space, getting the utilities in place, unpacking the shop things and moving his personal items into the back room for now. When they talked about running it, they said _we_. They didn’t discuss it, but when they reopened the shop, Aziraphale and Crowley stood together at the counter.

To Aziraphale’s surprise and disappointment, their first customer ordered coffee. There was plenty of coffee left in the storeroom, so Crowley made her one. The next customers, Lesley and Maude, wanted their usual tea, though, and after a few days, all the regulars had started to return: both the Hasta regulars and Aziraphale’s tea shop regulars, that is. Aziraphale hired Newt back, and eventually, Pepper as well.

“I’m so glad this is happening with both of you,” Wensleydale said one evening, when he’d arrived to play board games with Warlock, as he had done at Aziraphale’s old shop. “Decent coffee _and_ tea now.”

Aziraphale could scarcely believe the profit they were making, more than double what he’d made at his old shop—which he’d always considered quite successful. He realized they couldn’t put it off anymore, the talk they needed to have about the business, the building. The money.

“I could give you the building,” Crowley said one morning as they were preparing to open. “Sign it over to you. And you could just _hire_ me. Like Newt and Pepper.”

Aziraphale hesitated, wringing his hands. “You made this possible,” he said. “It hardly seems fair.”

“Well, it’s certainly not _my_ shop,” Crowley said. “Anyway, I didn’t make it possible. I bought a building. With my father’s money. Everything else is all you.”

“Let me think about it,” Aziraphale said.

Just then, there was a rattling as someone tugged on the locked door.

Crowley prowled to it, ready to wave off the overzealous customer. “Can’t they read a simple sign?” he snapped.

But moments later, Aziraphale turned his head at the sound of the door opening.

“ _What_?” Crowley snarled, as Warlock pushed inside.

“I posted something online,” he said. “And I think you should see it first, Mr. Fell. Because the whole town is going to see it before the election.”

Aziraphale had nearly forgotten that the town council special election was in just a few days, since Harriet Dowling, Warlock’s mother, was officially giving up her seat to move back to her home in America, now that her divorce from Thaddeus was final.

“Well, let’s see it then,” Crowley said. Warlock looked wary, but he set his mobile on the counter and pressed something. A video began.

_“Hi, so, I’m Warlock Dowling. My mum, Harriet, is currently in the town council seat that Gabriel Archer wants to take. I’m just urging people to consider voting for the other candidate, Mr. R. P. Tyler._

_“So, if you want to know why I think you should, well, OK, so I work at Cool Beans, Mr. Archer’s coffee shop. And I have seen some things I’m going to show you. And some other things I’m going to tell you._

_“OK, so remember when the Hasta came to town? Right, so, I videoed this happening right outside the shop.”_

Aziraphale frowned as the screen clumsily pixelated to black and then back into a grainy cell phone video, obviously taken through a window, of Gabriel attempting to threaten Crowley into selling his beans. The sound quality was bad, but he could make out the words (and just in case, Warlock had included subtitles along the bottom of the screen). Next to Aziraphale, Crowley shifted uncomfortably, so Aziraphale grabbed his hand.

When this portion of the video ended, the pixel effect happened again, and then Warlock’s face reappeared.

_“OK, so he was trying to get Hasta to work with him to sell his coffee. But here’s the other thing about his coffee. You might have noticed that the flavor is not what it used to be? That’s because instead of working with Chattering Nun coffee, run by Tadfield citizen Mary Hodges, which sells first-rate coffee grown ethically and sustainably, he’s selling cheap Four Horsemen coffee and marking it up. Which. Well, I mean, just google Four Horsemen coffee, for Christ’s sake. Or stop in and sample it. Blech. Nothing ethical or sustainable or even real about that._

_“But like, the other thing you might not have known is that his brother, Mr. Fell, of A. Z. Fell and Co., did not voluntarily leave his shop. Gabriel evicted him. From the building Mr. Fell’s own father owned. Which, by the way, was an institution in its own right, according to my dad. Just to run his campaign. He wouldn’t even let him keep his flat upstairs. Mr. Fell! The nicest man in Tadfield! I mean, who doesn’t love A. Z. Fell and Co.? Who doesn’t love Mr. Fell? And he’s technically homeless now. So, I mean, if that’s the kind of person you’d like to see on Town Council, obviously, vote for Mr. Archer. But, I mean, I hope Tadfield is better than that. If not, I’m out of here as soon as I finish uni.”_

Warlock blushed furiously. Aziraphale’s own face had gone hot at the word _homeless_. Was that how people thought of him, as some kind of charity case? But there was more to the video than that. More even, to the part that discussed him directly. He found himself unable to speak.

“Sorry,” Warlock said. “But people need to know. You know if he gets on Town Council he’ll just do whatever he needs to to make things good for himself and screw everyone else.”

Crowley squeezed his hand.

“All right, angel?” he said.

“I—” he tried.

“You should have checked with us first,” Crowley said. There was a protective tone in his voice that Aziraphale appreciated, but he wasn’t sure he needed protecting. Not just now.

“Yeah…” Warlock trailed off. “I guess. But I know what Mr. Archer is like. I know how hard it is to—to feel like it matters, what you think, I mean, when you go up against him.”

“Is that really what people think?” Aziraphale said, finally. “That I’m...that...that everyone loves the shop. Loves—”

“Yeah, of course,” Warlock said. “You’re the nicest man in town. Everyone knows that. And your teas are fucking magic.”

“Why do you think I call you angel?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale laughed, blinking back tears.

“Shit, I think I broke him,” Warlock said.

“Oh, not at all, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley pulled him into a hug. “Not at all.”

“Go on, then,” Crowley said, over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “It’s almost seven. Don’t let Gabriel catch you in here.”

“Oh, I’m not going back to work at Cool Beans,” Warlock said, with a grimace. “Do you think I’m mad?”


	10. Call Ended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, EveningStarcatcher, for not just the beta read, but also the title of this chapter!
> 
> cw in the footnotes (nothing major, just trying to avoid spoilers).
> 
> ALSO: this chapter includes both Crowley and Aziraphale POV. (The alternative was to have two very short chapters, and I didn't want to do that.)

The tea side of things was going well. The coffee side of things was going well, too. Which was interesting, because no one seemed to go to Cool Beans anymore.

Mary Hodges from the Chattering Nun had agreed to supply A. Z. Fell and Co. with coffee when their Hasta supply had run out.

“Thank goodness you saw sense,” she said. “I was getting worried about my prospects. Gabriel Archer hasn’t been a reliable customer at all.”

“Think he’s on Four Horsemen,” Crowley said.

Mary Hodges scoffed. “ _That_ swill.”

From what Crowley had seen of Tadfield, it didn’t surprise him when Warlock’s video became the talk of the little town. It didn’t surprise him that Gabriel tried to hold a rally in the park to talk himself up the day before the election. It didn’t surprise him that Gabriel lost.

Aziraphale, though, seemed rattled. He’d been moved by what Warlock had tried to do, but hadn’t liked being at the center of it. For days after Warlock had shown them the video, Aziraphale refused to go anywhere but to Tracy’s (or, as was increasingly the habit, to Crowley’s tiny flat). He worked the counter quietly, and tried to keep his head down.

Crowley had to direct more than a few people away when they started asking Aziraphale about Gabriel.

And Gabriel’s silence was complete. He didn’t come to the shop. He didn’t approach either of them on the street. Didn’t ring Aziraphale, didn’t do anything at all. After the election, he took down his signs quietly, probably in the night, since no one seemed to have seen him do it.

“Haven’t seen Gabriel for a few days,” Crowley said, about a week after the election, as he and Aziraphale walked home from the shop. Cool Beans had been closed for a few days after the election, and though it was back open now, they still hadn’t seen anyone come in or out. Now as they passed Aziraphale’s former shopfront, they could see that it was empty and locked.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He stopped in front of the building, facing it. “It does seem a shame,” he murmured.

Crowley’s heart stuttered. He wondered if Aziraphale would go back now, if Gabriel offered it to sell it to him, now that he no longer needed it. He’d remind him to get it from his useless brother in writing. Crowley would be left with the Hasta building on his own then. Or something. It made him nervous. He wasn’t sure if it would work on his own. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale squeezed.

Crowley liked working with Aziraphale all day. He liked the place they’d made together. _Their_ shop. At least, that was how Crowley thought of it.

There were other things he thought of, too. Like a better place to live. Somewhere bigger, in case maybe, Aziraphale might want to live there too. But then Aziraphale kissed him good night at the corner, and made his way to Tracy’s. Crowley stood at the corner and watched him, feeling oddly bereft. His flat was too small, yeah, but what if that wasn’t why Aziraphale didn’t want to come home with him. What if he was feeling crowded? What if Crowley had come on too fast, too strong? What if Crowley wanted too much from him?

Maybe if he got Aziraphale his flat back, got him his own shop back, that would be better. He wouldn’t be stuck with Crowley. Might be more what he was looking for.

* * *

Crowley called his attorney. Or, rather, his father’s attorney. He steeled himself for Ligur’s dismissive attitude. He called Crowley Mr. Flash behind his back, he knew, because he wasn’t careful enough about actually putting people on hold before saying whatever he wanted. Now that Crowley hadn’t inherited, he was even less interested. But Ligur did have a sense of loyalty to Crowley’s father. Which meant he’d at least listen. Anyway, he was the only lawyer Crowley actually knew, personally.

“If I asked you to look into a property ownership,” Crowley began.

“I don’t do property. If you’re still in Tadfield, you want to hire Michael Pierce.”

Ligur hung up. Crowley sighed. He looked up Michael Pierce. He recognized another name on the list of solicitors at her firm. Sandy Johnson. Crowley clicked the name to make sure and was directed to a page with a photograph and a list of credentials, including a blurb that he served as an advisor to the Tadfield Commerce Council. Yeah, definitely the same git.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley asked, one afternoon when they weren’t too busy. “I need to find a solicitor. Do you know who managed, ah, who handled your family’s estate?”

“Sandy Johnson,” Aziraphale said. “But I wouldn’t recommend—”

“Yeah, no, just wanted to know who to stay away from,” Crowley said.

“Quite,” Aziraphale smiled. “Is this about the building? It’s just that, I’m not sure if I want—”

“It’s not that,” Crowley said, cutting him off because he didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. He spotted a board game someone had left out on a table and breezed away to go and set it to rights.

* * *

Aziraphale woke up a few days later to his phone buzzing insistently on the bureau. He leapt up urgently, afraid that it might wake Tracy, or worse, Shadwell. He looked at the time. 6:30. “What on earth?”

He picked up the phone and turned it over: Gabriel.

Well, it had been only a matter of time, he supposed. At least over the phone there was only so much looming over him Gabriel could do, and all of it metaphorical.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh, don’t you _good morning_ me, sunshine. I am Gabriel fucking _Archer_. I hope you’re satisfied.”

“I have no idea what you—”

“Michael Pierce? Really? Lame, Aziraphale. So lame. I’ve still got all the money here, and I could _clean you out_ with the solicitors I can afford. You and that spindly fucking viper... All over Tadfield. _Well_. How _dare you_?”

“How dare I…? See Crowley?”

“I don’t care who you see or fuck or whatever, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. He sounded defeated, tired. “I mean, wouldn’t hurt you to have _some_ standards, but I guess you’ve got to take what you can get. No, no. I’m talking about the house. I’m talking about what you’ve _done to me._ ”

“I haven’t done—” But then, Crowley _had_ been asking about solicitors. Michael Pierce...she was a local solicitor. What had Crowley done?

“I never thought you were a traitor. I guess you learned it from him, didn’t you? Always suggestible.”

“Gabriel—?”

“I never thought you were a traitor.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gabriel,” Aziraphale tried. But the phone beeped. _Call ended_. Aziraphale’s heart pounded. He was sweating a little, he realized. But there was something else. A sense of finality. Of relief.

He dressed quickly and left Tracy’s, turning right instead of left to head to Crowley’s before going to the shop. Crowley was just leaving the flat when Aziraphale approached.

“Angel?”

“Gabriel rang me,” he said. “He said...I’d _done_ something to him. Something about Michael Pierce.”

Crowley made a strangled noise.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale said. “Tell me what’s happened. Why did you need a solicitor?”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said. His voice came out hoarse. He stopped right there on the street and jammed the heels of his hands into his face. “Fuck, angel, I’m sorry. I was trying to...I just…”

“Crowley? You’re scaring me, my dear.”

“I don’t know!” Crowley said. “I don’t know what happened, OK? I was just...I was trying to look into how to get your shop back. That’s all. I swear. I didn’t...didn’t _initiate any proceedings_ or anything like that. Didn’t ask anybody to do anything except just...look into who owned it. That’s all.”

“It’s all right, dearest,” Aziraphale said, stepping closer. He took Crowley’s hands, tugging them gently away from his face. He studied him. Crowley looked afraid, slowly turning hopeful as he realized Aziraphale wasn’t offering censure. “It’s all right,” Aziraphale repeated. “You were...looking into how to get my shop back?”

“I know you wanted it,” Crowley said. “You said what a shame it was it just sitting there empty, and so I—I just asked my father’s solicitor, and he said to check with Michael Pierce and she’s at the same firm as your brother’s solicitor, so I figured she could check the...the will…”

“Oh. But then—” Aziraphale’s mouth fell open, his grip on Crowley’s hands slackened. He clasped his own hands together, and looked around in the direction of his old shop, which wasn’t even visible from here. “Come along, then,” he said, thinking of Gabriel’s words. “Let’s not be late.”

“Wh—?” Crowley started, but didn’t finish.

As they turned onto the main road, Aziraphale was somehow not at all surprised to see Gabriel’s car parked on the road outside of Cool Beans. The door to the shop opened, and Gabriel appeared on the street, clutching a cash box and a tablet.

“Gabriel!” he called out. Gabriel whirled around, the tablet clattering to the ground. He didn’t pick it up.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Aziraphale picked up the tablet as they got closer, and handed it to Gabriel. Gabriel set the cash box inside the car, which was packed full, and turned to Aziraphale, taking the tablet from him. He did not thank Aziraphale, but Aziraphale hadn’t imagined that he would.

“What’s happening, Gabriel?” Aziraphale said. “Crowley said he’d hired Michael Pierce—”

Gabriel sighed. “Look, there might have been a...misunderstanding. About certain provisions mother made for you.”

“In the will?”

“Obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Crowley mimicked. Aziraphale bit his lip, but Gabriel looked past him.

“You!” Gabriel snapped. “I think you’ve done what you set out to do. Planning to stick around and reap the rewards now you’re out of your own inheritance?”

“Fuck off,” Crowley snapped, venomous. “ _You_ don’t _get_ to judge me.”

“I still don’t—” Aziraphale tried.

“I’ve got the money,” Gabriel said. “The Archer assets, anyway. But you...you’ve got the shop—your father’s shop. And the house. Was left to you. For some reason. Welcome to the family. Sandy and I, we misunderstood—you can’t blame us because it doesn’t make any goddamned sense. All right? All good?”

Crowley started to say something, but Gabriel cut him off, which was probably for the best.

“Excuse me.”

Gabriel pushed past them and launched himself into the car. Aziraphale’s mind reeled. He wanted to stop Gabriel, felt that there must be something he could say that would stop the circles his mind was playing, but Gabriel cranked the SUV and drove away, not in the direction of the Archer house, but toward the M25.

Could it be true?

“Angel?” Crowley said. “I think you’ve got a house. And your shop back, if you want it.”

“And Gabriel is...he’s gone.” Aziraphale was still afraid to trust it, the way the air seemed cleaner, somehow, easier to breathe.

Crowley swallowed. He looked like he was struggling with something. Finally, he took Aziraphale’s hand, his touch light, tentative. Aziraphale frowned; he was growing alarmed.

“I’m really sorry you lost your brother,” he said, finally. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, _Crowley_ , no,” Aziraphale said. “I haven’t felt this free in—well— _ever_. Thank you, my dear.”

* * *

At nine o’clock that morning, Crowley received a call. “Michael Pierce,” he mouthed, picking it up. Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley put her on speakerphone.

“Michael,” he said.

“Listen, Mr. Crowley. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but yesterday evening was a bit of a nightmare. Anyhow, I’ve just got back to the office, and I have news: Aziraphale Fell owns the property in question. But you might want to ask him to come to the office and...and be sure to ask for me. There’s been some...well, quite a lot of fallout. There are some things he needs to know.”

Aziraphale smiled, pressing fingers to his lips to keep himself silent. Crowley gave a bark of laughter.

“Yeah, I think he’s caught on by now. Sandy skip town, by any chance?”

“How did you—oh, no. And Archer?”

“Yup. Saw him this morning, car packed up, heading for the M25.”

“Back channels,” Michael murmured.

“We’ll see you as soon as we can,” Crowley said, cheerfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: swearing, familial estrangement, accusations of gold-digging.


	11. A Proper Shop, a Proper Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, EveningStarcatcher. And thanks to my readers. This has been the sappiest, tropiest thing I've written, so thanks for indulging me.

Once it was all sorted, Aziraphale could scarcely believe it. It had been his all along: not only his shop and flat, but the house, the _Archer_ house. And it had been spelled out clearly enough that Gabriel and Sandy couldn’t have _misunderstood_. After clearly mentioning the Archer assets--those that Gabriel’s father had specifically left to his son--which notably, did not include the house, which he’d left to to Aziraphale’s mother, there was the following:

_For my son, Aziraphale, a lifelong Tadfield resident who has never shown a desire to leave: You are steadfast and industrious. Of course, your father’s shopfront, A. Z. Fell and Co., will be yours, as he wished. In addition, I am leaving you this home, your childhood home, which I believe will bring you much joy and security. In the unlikely event that you wish to leave Tadfield and Gabriel does not, I hope you will offer him the home at a fair price if he wishes it before placing it on the market, but it is yours, so of course, you may do as you wish without fear of disrespecting my wishes. I know that Gabriel, for all of his many good qualities, has not always been your champion._

“You should take him to court for what he did to you all these years,” Crowley snarled. But he hadn’t seemed surprised that Aziraphale didn’t pursue this line of thought. He didn’t push.

Aziraphale moved in at once. Gabriel had taken all of the antique furniture aside from several huge, overfilled bookshelves and a couple of Aziraphale’s father’s tartan sofas, but Aziraphale didn’t mind, and it wasn’t long before he’d made the place homey and comfortable. There was a feeling of something missing, still, but he didn’t know how to address it.

Crowley had grown quiet, pensive, sometimes as they worked in the shop together. In the evenings, sometimes Aziraphale would walk home with him to the flat for drinks, or they’d go out to the pub. Sometimes they had dinner together, but he’d been quite busy with the house, wanting to get it all arranged before having guests, and anyway, it was not within easy walking distance of the shop or Crowley’s flat, so Crowley had to drive him home when they went to his, or out for drinks. His car, which Aziraphale had somehow not yet seen, was...conspicuous, and his driving worse. Aziraphale didn’t mind the long trek in in the mornings and the evenings when he left alone, went home and puttered around in the kitchen and study, trying to get at least a few rooms presentable. He knew how Crowley liked things neat. It seemed like it might make things easier if Crowley liked it there.

Crowley had _seen_ it, of course. When Michael had given him the keys and he’d first opened the place up, Crowley had been there, holding his hand as Aziraphale’s emotions swirled and surged. He hadn’t known what to expect, what Gabriel might have done with the place before leaving. Gabriel, after all, hadn’t been who he’d thought. Crowley had looked around, given a whistle before they’d gone in at all. The house was grand, situated on the side of the cliff looking down over the town, but blocked from view by a thicket of trees.

“It’s a lovely property,” Aziraphale had said, as they entered. He’d walked him around the place a little, showing him his old bedroom, which Gabriel had allowed to become covered with dust.

“Are you happy with this?” Crowley had asked. Aziraphale had kissed him in answer, already picturing a future with him there, the two of them with room to spread out, room for everything they wanted, room for each other. But it was too soon, he’d thought. They’d only been together properly a couple of months, and he had no idea how long it would take to get the house situated. So he hadn’t asked.

* * *

But it had been several weeks now, and he was beginning to wonder if his not having invited Crowley up to the house was taking on some sort of meaning. If that was why Crowley sometimes looked sad, why he seemed distant at the shop. He’d lost interest in learning the tea blends, the brewing temperatures, focusing on the coffee. When it was just the two of them behind the counter, he’d sometimes find excuses to tidy things, to _chat_ with people, which wasn’t much like him at all.

Aziraphale took out his pocket watch and glanced down at it as he approached the shop. Their shop, he thought, smiling. He was a little too early, and he didn’t want to open alone, so he started toward Crowley’s flat. Perhaps he could pick him up and they could walk together. As he passed his old shop, thinking idly of what he might do with the building now, it suddenly dawned on him what the problem was. He already _had_ a building. A shop. The one they were running together, which he’d arrogantly attached to his own name, was _Crowley’s_ shop. He’d never bought it. They’d never done any paperwork. Of course. Now he had his building back, Crowley would be expecting him to go. Oh, how could he have been so selfish? He stopped, pressing his hands over his mouth. And here he’d been thinking of asking Crowley to move in with him. As if his reward was to become some kind of kept man. He’d bought Aziraphale a building and done so much and…

But Aziraphale didn’t want to move back to this building. He didn’t want to disentangle their lives. Perhaps, he thought, he could still ask Crowley to move in? He could rent out the flat, and move his tea shop and books back to this building and then ask Crowley if he’d like to come and live—

In a house he’d never even properly seen. When he’d been more and more withdrawn.

He looked up then and saw Crowley walking past the side street on his way to their shop. Crowley’s shop. He must have dawdled longer than he’d thought. He raised a hand in greeting, expecting Crowley to turn to come and join him. But Crowley gave him a tight smile, raised a hand silently, and kept walking. Aziraphale was too shocked to call out, to run after him. Instead, he kept still, took a few steadying breaths, and, wringing his hands, started off toward the shop in the other direction.

* * *

“You walked past me,” he said, a few minutes later, as he waited for Crowley to finish unlocking and followed him inside.

“Saw you looking at the old place,” Crowley said. “Figured I’d give you some space.”

“I—” Aziraphale began, then stopped himself. He’d been about to say, _I don’t want space_ , but that seemed too barbed, somehow, when Crowley obviously did. He pressed his lips together as Crowley moved behind the counter and began scooping coffee grounds into the machine. “Crowley, is something wrong?”

“Wrong? No, wha—why would there be something wrong? You’ve got your shop back. Need help moving out, setting up?”

“Listen, I thought--I didn’t mean to take advantage. You see, it didn’t occur to me that I should leave. I’d thought—that is, I’d come to think of this place as—”

“Ours.”

“Well, yes, ours.”

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath.

“But, I realize that that was a bit short-sighted of me. You’ve very kindly allowed me to use this space as I needed it, and I don’t anymore, do I? So, I suppose I ought to leave you to it.”

“No. No, angel,” Crowly started. He looked down at the floor. “Look, I—do you—do you _want_ to go? Because it, I mean, this space is, well, it’s just—ah.”

“I really can’t impose upon you any longer.”

“No! Look, I think...I think this works. Don’t you? Think it works?”

“Well. Yes. But—”

Crowley reached out and grabbed Aziraphale’s hands. “Then stay. Come on. I want you to.”

“But lately, you’ve been so withdrawn. This past week, you haven’t seemed interested in the tea side of things even.”

“I thought _you_ wanted to go. You were so happy when you got the shop back.”

“Oh, darling—”

“And then you got all—all busy, and I thought, OK, it’s just the house and all the work that bastard left you with to get it livable, taking all the furniture and everything.”

“Michael did say that he was entitled to the furniture.”

“Michael’s a wanker. But...but then you didn’t invite me up. And I couldn’t help thinking...” Crowley shrugged.

“I’m sorry, dearest. It’s only that I wanted it to be a nice space before I brought you there again.” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hands and then found himself unable to move them when Crowley’s own hands tightened around his and held them. “Because, you see...” Aziraphale took a deep breath and steeled himself. These were not the ideal circumstances to ask Crowley to move in, but needs must.

“No, I get it, I just. I kept...kept thinking,” Crowley said, not looking at Aziraphale. “Kept thinking about what Gabriel said. About how I wanted to...to reap the rewards of your inheritance.”

“Crowley, no. You know you mustn’t listen to _Gabriel_. I certainly don’t.”

“But--but you don’t know what I was thinking.”

Aziraphale stared. Then something occurred to him. Something that made him feel a flutter of hope in his chest. Had they been thinking the same thing?

“Would you like to move in?” he asked. “Into the house, I mean. With me. I know you haven’t seen the place, and forgive me if I’m getting rather ahead of myself, but I _had_ wanted to ask you. I’d thought I should at least get the place arranged properly first.”

“Fuck, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. He finally released the vice-like hold on Aziraphale’s hands, dropping them and stepping closer to him, resting his hands on his forearms instead. “See? That’s what I kept thinking. Not because...I wanted to live in the house, but because I wanted to be with _you_. Just kept thinking about us together. But I couldn’t prove that I didn’t...didn’t want—”

“Oh, Crowley. Do shut up. I won’t hear it. I could never think such a thing.”

Crowley studied him a moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “OK.”

Aziraphale felt his heart lift, and he threw his arms around Crowley and hauled him in. Crowley’s arms wound around him, squeezing him tight, like a snake, and they were laughing. Crowley kissed his cheek and Aziraphale turned his head and brushed their lips together. Crowley cupped the back of his head as he deepened the kiss.

* * *

Anathema and Newt took over the space that had been Aziraphale’s tea shop. They turned it into a proper local gallery and lived in the flat above. They rented the space for now, but Anathema had let it be known that when she made her first big art sale (which Aziraphale was certain would be any day now), she intended to buy. As it turned out, Newt had no intention of leaving Tadfield, and Anathema had no intention of leaving Newt.

As for the spot that had been Gabriel’s coffee shop, it sat abandoned for a year until the Town Council declared it an eyesore and reclaimed it for Tadfield. No one had heard from Gabriel or been able to reach him since he’d gone.

“It’s because he knows you could have him arrested,” Crowley said smugly, when he’d heard. He and Aziraphale had been sitting together in Aziraphale’s study, Crowley’s feet thrown over Aziraphale’s lap as Aziraphale read. His phone had chimed moments ago: Tracy telling him about the announcement about Gabriel's shop from R. P. Tyler in that day’s paper. She was going to make an offer.

 _It would be nice to have a proper shop to do my tarot readings_ , she’d said.

“Oh, that smacks of cosmic justice,” Aziraphale said. “He never thought well of Tracy.”

Crowley sat up and kissed him. “And this?” he said, shifting so that Aziraphale was pressed into the couch. “Somehow, I don’t think he’d approve of this at all.”

“Good lord, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, wiggling beneath him. “If we’re going to do _this_ , please let’s discuss something else.”

“If we’re going to do this, only you would want to involve a _discussion_ at all,” Crowley said.

Which was a fair point. Aziraphale conceded by ceasing discussion immediately. There were, after all, other uses for his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly note to let you know that there is now a sequel, [A New Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896915/chapters/65632135), available, if you're interested!


End file.
